


Clothed in Marble

by thefairfleming



Series: City of Illusions [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Gladiator AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:06:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6997021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lady Sansa, the Northman, champion of the arena. Northman, my betrothed.“</p><p>"Domina,” Jon murmurs, bowing slightly, his eyes downcast.</p><p>Sansa lets her gaze flick briefly to him, hoping no one can see her heart hammering in her throat. Domina, he calls her. He has called her that before, said that word the first day she met him. But just yesterday, she was <i>sweet girl</i> as she writhed beneath his touch on his narrow bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clothed in Marble

Sansa hates the games.

Even as a child, when pomp and pageantry had easily turned her head, she’d seen that there was no glory, no honor in slaughter for entertainment. Her father had felt the same, and every time she goes pale at the sight of blood on the sand, Joff reminds her that her father had sought to ban the games altogether. “Runs in the family,” he says. “A certain…weakness of spirit.”

Perhaps he is right. Perhaps she is weak. Neither she nor her father nor brother had ever lusted for violence the way so many other noble Romans had. And after all, Joff, whose appetite for carnage seems insatiable, is here while her father and Robb both molder in their tombs.

But it is not weakness that makes Sansa tremble now. As she watches Jon dodge the blade of a Thracian who seems twice his size, she does her best to remain aloof, impassive. Still, Joff notices. He notices everything.

"You’re shaking, Lady Sansa,“ he says, glee dripping from every word. She sometimes thinks Joff is longing for her to faint dead away during the games. And just now, as the Thracian’s sword draws blood on Jon’s upper arm, she thinks she might.

No. No, that would please Joff entirely too much, and she has so few weapons against him. This, her blank coolness, is the most effective, and she will not abandon it now. "It’s rather cold up here, Caesar,” she tells him, tugging her palla tighter around her shoulders. “Not the best weather for sport, really.”

She even manages a yawn before looking back to the tray of fruit and sweetmeats laid next to her, selecting the perfect grape rather than crying out when the Thracian drives Jon to his knees.

Sansa chats with Margaery when the Thracian’s sword cuts again. She makes a show of pouring wine when Jon manages to draw blood as well, and when Jon drives his short dagger through the Thracian’s throat, Sansa is hardly paying any attention at all. She is fiddling with the broach on her stola, frowning even as her fingers brush the talisman around her throat, a cheap thing of ivory and leather meant to bring protection to those its wearer loves.

Only when Joff insists the champion be brought up to the imperial box does Sansa waver. She is not sure she can stand in front of Jon and not throw her arms about him, not use her fine silks to wipe the blood from his face.

To keep herself from doing either, she looks somewhere beyond his shoulder and does everything she can to project an air of boredom and mild distaste as Joff makes his introductions.

"Lady Sansa, the Northman, champion of the arena. Northman, my betrothed.“

"Domina,” Jon murmurs, bowing slightly, his eyes downcast.

Sansa lets her gaze flick briefly to him, hoping no one can see her heart hammering in her throat. Domina, he calls her. He has called her that before, said that word the first day she met him. But just yesterday, she was _sweet girl_ as she writhed beneath his touch on his narrow bed.

He’d panted those words over and over again- _sweet girl, my sweet girl, my Sansa_ \- against her neck as his fingers had done all manner of filthy things to her, as she’d arched and cried out and told him she loved him.

_"You don’t love me,“ he tells her afterwards, as they lay amongst the sheets she brought him, sweaty and tired and sore._

_"I don’t?” Sansa does not have the strength to push up on one arm and look at him, so she pours all her skepticism into those two words._

_"No,“ Jon replies. "You love the things I make you feel, that’s all.”_

_His thumb makes soothing circles on her shoulder blade, and Sansa rubs her cheek against his chest. "You’re a fool if you think I don’t know my own mind,“ she tells him, no real heat in the words. "And it’s my mind that loves you, Jon Snow. My mind and my heart. My cunt really has very little to do with it.”_

_His answering laugh is both relieved and shocked, and Sansa is quite late getting home that afternoon._

Now, she meets his gaze coolly and tries not to look at the blood drying on his brow. “You fought well.”

"Thank you, Domina,“ he says with another small bow.

Later, she will clean that blood from his face. She will cover his bruised knuckles with kisses. She will hold his head against her breast and rock on his lap and tell him he is the only man she will ever love.

Now, she merely looks at her Joffrey and says, "Can we leave now? I’m dreadfully bored.”


End file.
